His exquisite person, allied to his high rank and wealth, would have been enough to set him up as a marital prize, even without the glamour of his travel and poems, but it was the poetry and the plethora of rumours preceding his landing that lent him that certain extra charm-the magic that surrounded his name. On that first evening when his name was announced and he stepped into Princess Lieven’s ball to shake hands with his hostess, there hadn’t been a sound in the room. Every eye was turned on him; even breath was suspended at the climax of the moment. There was total silence. “I never heard the likes of it since Beau Brummell's famous question to Alvanley about the Prince Regent-’Who’s your fat friend?’,” the Princess Lieven stated later.
Dammler was tall and supple, his body lean from the rigours of travel, his shoulders wide and straight. His amorous and aggressive exploits left a residue of weariness on his face, and this, combined with the tan he had picked up, saved him from being too handsome. One shock the ton had not been prepared for was the black eye patch over his left eye, but this was in no way a distraction from his charms. Quite the contrary, it was the coup de grace. His coats, his interesting drawl, his habit of hunching his shoulders and throwing up his hands could be and were studiously followed by his imitators, but they none of them were ready to go to the laughable length of either sticking a patch on a good eye, or removing one and giving themselves just cause to wear the patch. In this he was unique. Before he was in the room a minute the Princess had asked the reason for the patch.
“I was hit by a Cherokee’s arrow as I fled downstream in my canoe, ma’am,” he answered smiling. “I lost the maiden I was trying to rescue, unfortunately, but I saved the eye. My patch can come off in a few months.”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” she answered promptly. “Let us get used to one such dangerous eye before we are challenged with two.”
“You are too kind, but only think, Princess, if I had the use of both, I could see you twice as well.” He ran an admiring glance over the gaunt lady as he spoke.
“Oh you are naughty, milord,” she tittered, enchanted with him.
“I am you know, but don’t tell anyone, or you will frighten away the ladies,” he laughed, and within seconds he was surrounded by them.
No polite party had seen such an unseemly scramble since the Prince of Wales entertained King Louis of France at Carlton House. A ‘squeeze,' of course, was all the go, but a stampede was what Princess Lieven’s ball was rapidly disintegrating into. She had to hustle the guest of honour into a private parlour and bolt the door to save him from having the hair pulled from his head, and the black jacket ripped from his back.
“I had thought I was returning to civilisation,” he told her, and she later told waiting Society. “It seems I am back among the savages. You ought really to have warned me, Princess, and I’d have brought my pistols.”
“What you need is a bodyguard,” she told him, and before long it was necessary for him to acquire not one but two. When he sauntered down Bond Street or rode in the park, he was accompanied by two men, each six-and-a-half feet tall and as broad as doors, to stave off the mobs. One was a jet black Nubian picked up on his peregrinations, the other a dour Scotsman with red hair and freckles. These persons accompanied him everywhere, but Society soon learned that Dammler did not like being pulled about and disappeared if physically handled. The colourful trio was a windfall for the cartoonists. The escorts were dubbed Dammler's “Guardian Angels,” and were represented by Gilray with wings and halos in the pictures that decorated the store windows.
The question uppermost in the mind of Society was, naturally, which fortunate female would attract Lord Dammler. His behaviour was maddeningly provocative. He would partner some dashing heiress for one or two days-appear with her at the opera and the balls-then two nights later she would be replaced by another. Rumours were rampant as to his having a wild but secret affair with this married lady or that widow, but they were not credited by the knowing. No lady would remain silent if she had indeed made a conquest of such magnitude. She would shout it from the rooftops. Several did lay claim to having entrapped him, and he was too polite to deny their lies outright, but only smiled and said, “Possibly, I don’t seem to recall the name of the lady I was with last night.”
It soon became obvious that his affection centered on no lady, but a young female of quite a different sort. He was frequently seen in company with a lady of pleasure of exquisite beauty, whose outstanding attraction was her hair. By some alchemy it had achieved a shade somewhere between silver and gold. She appeared in the park in a phaeton pulled by a matched pair of horses from the royal stud at Hanover, of much the same colour as her hair. She also appeared in an enviable collection of gowns and jewels.
Cantos from Abroad was in every hand and on every lip, in every book shop window and on every polite table top, and Lord Dammler’s fame rose higher, till it seemed he must be giddy from such heights. He was amazed and amused, tolerant and good-humoured, but eventually bored with it all, and began retiring from the gay social round. He dispensed with his “Guardian Angels,” and to escape for a spell, he accepted an invitation to a house party at Finefields, the estate of Lord Malvern and his pretty young wife Constance. No daring friend ever inferred to the Countess of Malvern that she had been well-named. Her affairs were infamous throughout the land. It was generally assumed that she had added Dammler to her long list of admirers. Certainly the lady did nothing to deny the rumour.
Stories sped back to London of orgies and affairs of unprecedented decadence, of a duel between Dammler and Malvern over the Countess’s honour. “Dammler mustn’t have taken to her,” Princess Lieven quipped. Malvern is very piqued if his friends don’t make love to Constance.” The poet was more discussed in his absence than in his presence, and when he returned to town, there was a fresh arrow in his quiver. He brought with him another installment of his Cantos from Abroad- those stanzas completed during the last six months of his tour, now polished and ready for publication. They involved the last lap of his journey home, with a detour into South America and the sea voyage aboard a ship which contained an improbable school of nuns and a licentious crew. The cantos were an immediate success. Miss Mallow, like everyone else with a guinea to spare, dashed out and bought a copy to delight her idle hours.
Perusing them, she wondered that anyone could bother to read her own dull stuff, with characters no more interesting than her Uncle Clarence, whom she had converted into a lady who wrote bad music which she constantly compared to Bach, with that gentleman on the short end.
Prudence and the poet lived and wrote in the same city, worked for the same publisher and public; their lives travelled in parallel lines, never touching. Lord Dammler occupied a large part of Miss Mallow’s mind, but he did not know of her existence. She was, in fact, once drawn to his attention by their mutual editor, Mr. Murray.
“Have you had a look at this novel, Dammler?” Murray asked one day when Prudence’s latest work was on his desk.
“I don’t read novels, except for Scott’s,” Dammler drawled, without ever glancing at the three volumes, nicely bound in blue with gold lettering.
“Oh, well if you care for Scott, I daresay you wouldn’t like this. Tame stuff-domestic, but good. Scott likes it. While you’re here, I mean to give your arm a little twist. There’s a dinner in honour of Mr. Wordsworth next week at Pulteney’s Hotel. I’m enjoining my more illustrious writers to attend and pay him homage. Will you come?”